Soul
by Philote
Summary: Sam had known what he was asking of Dean, but he hadn’t really understood the impact. He’s seen both sides of the coin now. Tag scene for Heart.


Title: Soul

Author: Philote

Rating: PG

Summary: Sam had known what he was asking of Dean, but he hadn't really understood the impact. He's seen both sides of the coin now.

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of _Supernatural_ do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don't sue.

Spoilers: through "Heart"

Author's Note: Tag scene for "Heart," because if ever an episode screamed "tag me" it was this one. I'm sure it will be done many times and probably better, but here is my offering. Feedback is welcome.

oOo

The body falls backwards with the impact, blood spraying naturally onto the opposite wall. Sam stares, blinking, vaguely aware that his face is still wet.

The moment could be an eternity or only a heartbeat. He doesn't comprehend it. Then Dean is beside him, touching him softly, his voice equally quiet. He feels Dean's hand slide down his forearm to grasp the gun. Sam can't seem to make himself respond, and Dean ends up having to support the pistol's weight with one hand and use the other to disengage Sam's fingers.

He's being too gentle. Not that Dean's incapable of being gentle; it's just that things have to be pretty bad for him to start treating Sam like he's made of glass. Sam swallows, slowly realizing that he's gone numb. Dean's touch is loosening his hold on emotions he's not ready to feel yet. He releases the gun and steps back, pulling away from his brother.

"I need to be alone. I'll meet you back at the hotel later."

"Sammy!" Dean calls from behind him, but he's already out the door.

He wanders around for a while. When he eventually looks up and has no idea where he is, he remembers that he has actually been to very few places in this town. He's spent most of his time in Madison's apartment.

The thought makes him weak. He's beside some sort of park overlooking a lake, so he makes his way to a bench and sits down heavily.

He suddenly can't stop seeing her face. Not as she looked while transformed, not even as she looked in the end with her expression full of resolve and forgiveness. No, he sees the little quirk of lips as she folded her underwear in front of him, the smile when she got him discussing a soap opera, the ecstasy when they shared her bed. He sees the innocent, normal girl trying to live her normal life.

It's when her face starts mingling with images of Jessica that he stands again and takes off blindly around the jogging trail, as if the exercise will stave off the memories.

It can't stop him from thinking, of course. The responsibility for Jess's death came back to him, but he hadn't taken her life with his own hand. He's killed countless things: monsters, spirits, demons. He's watched a few humans die in the crossfire, some of them innocent, some not so much. He supposes this is a bit like that; that the person Madison was had to die in order to kill the monster hiding within her. He remembers Meg's death. He knows firsthand what it is like to be prisoner to evil inside of you. He knows he should see the freedom of death as mercy.

Is mercy supposed to hurt like hell?

He has to stop running when he has trouble catching his breath. He collapses on the nearest bench and just sits, watching the sun set.

He's been comparing himself to Madison, understanding the position she was in with an evil that she was helpless to fight festering inside her. But now…now he's in the other position.

The one he put Dean in.

He hardly knew Madison. He'd liked her, felt a connection that might have become something, but it wasn't long enough to have loved her. And this is still ripping him apart.

Sam had known what he was asking of Dean. But he hadn't seen it from Dean's side; he hadn't really understood the impact. He's seen both sides of the coin now.

He'd felt justified in extracting that promise. It had made him feel a little better to believe that Dean would stop him if things went bad; to know that Dean knew it was what Sam wanted.

But Dean loves him and wants to protect him with a fierceness that almost scares him sometimes. Sam is the one and only person he's allowed himself to love. He can distance himself from everything else, take whatever lives he needs to. But when it comes to Sam, Dean would prefer to lock him in a box and blow up the world around him to keep him safe.

Maybe, in Sam's case, mercy might be killing himself before they get to that point.

He can't say he hasn't thought about it. He thinks about the deaths awaiting them often these days. He can't help but figure the odds on one of them surviving the other. And Sam's kind of terrified of what might happen to Dean without him.

So while he may put Dean through hell one day, he doesn't think he has a right to leave him alone now. He's kind of convinced himself that life owes them a lot, and that at the very least they deserve to be together as long as they can.

And right now, he needs to talk to Dean. He wants to be with Dean.

Before he has a chance to change his mind he stands and heads with purpose out of the park. He has to suck it up, find a convenience store and ask for directions to the hotel.

oOo

He knocks lightly on the door, trying not to think of the pounding he resorted to earlier. When it opens Dean is fully dressed, jacket on and boots half-laced. After an awkward beat he states, "I was about to come looking for you."

Sam just shrugs, not trusting himself to speak. Dean steps aside without further comment and Sam wanders in. He's a couple of feet past the bathroom before he realizes he hasn't been all day and he backtracks, slamming into Dean. Dean catches him by the biceps, steadies him, and meets his eyes.

Something in Sam breaks painfully. Luckily his bladder supercedes his emotions and he finds the strength to pull away and gesture vaguely at the bathroom. Dean takes the hint and moves, but Sam can feel the weight of his worried gaze until he shuts the door.

When he reemerges, Dean's gotten rid of the jacket and boots and is just standing there in his jeans and t-shirt, apparently waiting for him. Sam wanted to talk earlier, but now he feels like he's got a giant lump in his throat. He crosses to the nearest bed and sits on the edge.

Dean hunches down in front of him, catching his chin. "You with me here, Sammy?"

"Yes?" He belatedly realizes that shouldn't have been a question. Dean arches a doubtful eyebrow and then kneels, unlacing his shoes and pulling them off. Sam just watches, the tender gesture making his eyes burn. By the time Dean stands and starts on his jacket Sam is trembling, tears starting to run down his cheeks again.

Dean curses under his breath and gets a bit more insistent with the jacket. It's stubbornly tangled in his watch, and for a moment Sam is concerned that it may get blasted with the rocksalt. "Hang on, okay? Just a second…"

By the time he wrestles it off the tears aren't silent anymore; Sam's well on his way to full-blown sobs. He tries to clamp down on them, without much success.

Dean moves out of his field of vision and the bed dips behind him. Sam doesn't need to turn to know that he's settling against the headboard, preparing to be there for a while. He doesn't flinch when the touch to his shoulder comes, and he obeys the soft "Come here" without protest.

He curls up at Dean's side, buries his face against Dean's chest, and tries not to whimper with relief when strong arms close around him. The movements are familiar. They've done this before—not often, but enough. When he was younger and so upset after his first kill; when he finally gave in and really grieved for Jess. It's in letting himself be comforted where Dean falters; he's never been hesitant about holding and comforting Sam.

"I've got you," Dean whispers. He says it over and over, matching the repetitive movement of the hand making soothing strokes over Sam's back. No "It's okay" or "It'll be all right." Just, "I've got you." It's the one honest, comforting thing he can say. He says it packed with emotion, like a promise, like it's something he's swearing to for the rest of his life.

Sam's tears play out slowly. He finally shifts and sits up a bit, needing to breathe. Dean loosens his grip to one arm looped around his shoulders and then they're side-by-side, staring at the blank TV across the room.

There's a long period of silence broken only by Sam's sniffles. Then, "I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam frowns. Dean's not much for empty platitudes, and this sounds personal. "For what?"

"For leaving you alone there. For thinking…hell." He blows out a frustrated breath. "I thought it would be a good thing, for you to be able to get close to someone again."

Sam takes a moment before he answers. "It was."

Dean makes a sound that's an odd cross between disbelief and sorrow. Sam angles his head up, but Dean's still staring at the opposite wall. "She was the first, right? I mean, you liked Lori and Sarah, but Madison is the first you've actually been with since…"

"Yes."

"Sex was never just sex for you, was it?"

Sam grins sadly. "Nope." That's one area in which he grew up very differently from Dean.

The quiet descends again. Then Dean says softly, "I didn't think she'd ask you to do it."

Sam shrugs, the movement rocking them both. "She wanted to die at the hands of someone she cared for. She certainly deserved that much."

Dean grimaces a little, his fingers tightening on Sam's shoulder.

Dean doesn't understand, not really. He hasn't been the monster. Sam has tried to explain what it was like. He used words like helpless and violation, and Dean looked concerned and pissed on his behalf. But he can't really know what it feels like. There aren't words horrific enough to convey it.

He doesn't say any of that. He takes his turn at the apology instead. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean's brow furrows and he shakes his head in confusion. "You did what you had to do. What she wanted…"

"No." He has to be firm, because Dean will shrug this conversation off if he can. "I'm sorry I had to ask it of you."

Dean goes quiet for so long that Sam starts to tense up. Finally he clears his throat. "It's not a good feeling."

"No. Kind of along the lines of falling off a cliff."

Dean's expression is almost physically painful. "Yeah." He tugs Sam closer again, waiting until he's back against him and out of eye contact before he says, "Maybe you're stronger than me, Sammy."

Sam really, really doesn't think that's true. He presses his face into Dean's shoulder. "I don't want to be a monster," he confesses before he can think better of it.

He feels Dean stiffen. "You're not."

Sam continues as if he hadn't spoken. "But I don't ever want to do this to you either. I know it would be even worse. I can't even imagine, if our positions were reversed…" he breaks off, swallowing hard, his grip on Dean tightening spasmodically.

Dean doesn't say anything, just smoothes a hand over his back again.

Sam shuts up.

He won't ask for the promise again. He doesn't need to. He knows now how it would play out.

Dean would do everything in his power—and probably some things that aren't—to save him. Some people might die. Probably a lot of people.

But in the end, if it came to that, he believes that Dean would find mercy for him. That he would do what's best for Sam, even if that means loving him enough to let him go.

Unfortunately, he is just as sure Dean wouldn't survive it.

There's probably something very unhealthy about how codependent they are. They're all each other has—and it's become pretty clear that they have no right to endanger anyone else by inviting them into their lives. So barring some miraculous defeat of all evil, they will continue this way.

This is the hand they've been dealt. It's not so bad really, especially if he can learn to live in the moment. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and snuggles closer, relishing the pliant teddy bear role that Dean so rarely plays. Deciding that he's ready to lighten the moment he shares that thought aloud, accompanied by a couple of well-placed pokes.

Dean squawks indignantly and squirms. "You want to spend the night on the floor?" he threatens. "'Cause I'd be happy to help you get down there." His actions belie his words as he squeezes Sam tightly and brings one hand up to muss his hair. Sam is left staring up at him irritably through a mess of bangs.

Dean snorts and Sam springs, tugging him down and pouncing. Dean gets into the game quickly enough, wrestling him over and pinning him with, "Who needs a teddy bear when you've got a floppy, overstuffed puppy?"

He's still being gentle, and it costs him. Sam takes it for a long moment before he abruptly twists and shoves and ends up on top again.

Dean looks surprised, then he starts laughing. It rather hampers his continued efforts to get out of Sam's grip.

Does anyone else slip so easily from sobs to mock fighting and laughing in the face of death and impending evil? Or is it just the Winchester way?

Their lives are so screwed up.

Sam can't help but laugh too.

oOo


End file.
